Our ideal had fallen. "You depart for Lancashire to-morrow. Brendon and Courtlaw who had been watching for her, met her at the door. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. His face will be all I need.
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